


Love Among the Assassins

by BiJane



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Assassins, Banter, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Murder, Holidays, It is now, League of Assassins - Freeform, Murder, Pre-Series, Sunrises, fluffy murder, inappropriate times to flirt, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various dates Sara and Nyssa go on, while at the League pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably continue this, when I have free time, and think of more unusual assassin-style dates. I considered writing something like this when we first met Nyssa, but it only fell into place after seeing her in Unthinkable, when she was less ruled by anger.  
> Basically, this story will feature disconnected, odd semi-dates and romantic-ish moments between the couple, back when they both found murder casual. I'm not really sure where I'm going, I just had to write something for these two, and I liked the general idea.

For the life of her, Sara couldn’t remember his name. There was a figure of 800,000 in the local currency (about 10,000 dollars), gathered together by multiple people. Paid in to the League as the cost for dealing with an American businessman who’d arrived a year ago, and begun slave-mining resources, paying off officials and getting away with anything.

It was nothing big, something almost anyone in the League could handle. Still, Nyssa liked to keep in practise, and this was the only one available.

Though it was certainly something she could manage alone, and manage easily, there was no reason she couldn’t enjoy herself during: so where Nyssa went, so did Sara. It was, Sara reflected, a fairly twisted kind of date.

“He suspects people are after him,” Nyssa said, sitting in the shade of a tree, beside Sara.

For the moment, they weren’t in their typical assassin uniform. First step was always reconnaissance: learn the area, spot entrances and exits. Nyssa in a red dress, Sara in a pale blue shirt and jeans, both in leather jackets. Every inch a normal couple.

They sat outside their target’s mansion, playing at relaxing, chatting amiably, while scanning the place they’d soon have to break into. 

Sara nodded. “I see them,” she said, answering Nyssa’s unspoken statement.

There was no need to elaborate on every thought. The target knew people were after him: obvious, from the guards hanging around doorways, and the plainclothes people taking oddly circuitous routes around the mansion. Hired guards.

He was afraid. Still, those guards were probably a waste of money.

“Not very good, are they?” Sara said. Her trained eyes could see several dozen possible entrances, none of which bore any indication of being watched.

“Amateurs,” Nyssa said, matter-of-factly. “It’s not really a surprise, they usually are. Which entrance do you want to go for?”

Sara tilted her head, thoughtfully regarding the place. There were plenty of possible entrances: one only needed to scale a couple of walls to make it to the roof, and smash through the skylight. No one was watching there: and generally speaking, skylights lead to rooms likely to be occupied by the homeowners.

No fun in taking the easy route, though.

The mansion was in the middle of a decent-sized garden, that formed a ring around the house itself. It wasn’t a huge garden, ten/twenty metres or so, but it was enough that it would be hard to cross unimpeded, if spotted.

Around the garden, there was a wall about twice the height of human: the only exception to that rule being along the front, where it was lowered to waist-height to allow people to look, and the gate at the front.

So the front was the easy entrance.

“For me,” Sara said, “Over the back wall, around the garden, in through the front door.”

Probably one of the harder routes. Would no doubt be spotted scaling the wall, then would have to fight off a few guards. Then head all the way around the house, and take the obvious route.

“Fun,” Nyssa said, smiling. “Think I’ll take the same. You go around the left, I’ll take the right?”

“It’s a plan,” Sara said. She squeezed Nyssa’s hand, smiling.

She felt the same thing, each time they prepared for a mission. A heady mix of excitement, and anticipation. There used to be fear, or at least more fear, but that was replaced by mild wariness. She knew not to become complacent.

In Nanda Parbat, there was a garden named Complacency. It was the cemetery.

“Next question,” Sara said, “Night, or now?”

“Dawn,” Nyssa said. “Cover of night for the kill, light if we stay around. Sound good?”

Sara nodded, and smiled.

A few more minutes sitting in place, idly observing the mansion. Without even sharing a word, they stood up as one, when they each decided there was no more to be gained from observation.

A few hours until they’d break in. Night was beginning to fall, and the nights were short in the season. Until then, they’d wait.

The League had booked them a hotel room, under a false name of course. It was a place to wait, to plan, and to prepare. They did enjoy their privacy.

When dawn neared, they changed. They’d only brought one case between them, within it being a handful of changes of clothes, the outfit preferred by League assassins, and a small arsenal of weaponry. Nyssa picked a bow and quiver, Sara her preferred bo-staff.

In these lands, the League was better known than it was elsewhere. Even if there was no official knowledge, people knew enough to recognize the distinctive outfits of a member of the League of Assassins. Sara and Nyssa walked, side-by-side down empty streets, and doors locked and windows shut around them.

“What’re we doing, after?” Sara said, conversationally. “Heading straight back, or is there anything you want to see or do here?”

“A few things,” Nyssa said. She glanced sideways: smiled beneath the cloth that covered most of her face. “You’re used to wining and dining, are you not? We may not have the best facilities for it, back in Nanda Parbat, but there’s no harm in getting something while we’re here.”

They walked past the side of the garden walls, turning a corner, heading to the back. Sara nodded, smiled; and realizing that her expression couldn’t be seen below her veil, “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Nyssa said, only slightly playfully.

Without a word more, each leapt, effortlessly scaling the otherwise flat wall, and landing at the back of the garden. A shared glance: then they moved apart from each other, melting into the shadows and slipping around the grand mansion.

Each were spotted as vague movements. Before any of the countless guards could react, however, they were too close. The best managed to get one or two blows in, each one blocked.

Under a minute later, Sara reached the front door of the mansion, only slightly out of breath. Nyssa was already there, resting one hand on the doorway, giving every indication of having been there a while. Or at least, a few seconds, taking the opportunity to tease Sara.

“Shell we enter?” Nyssa spoke, playful.

“Surprised you haven’t already,” Sara said. “Waiting for me to carry you over the threshold?”

“The other way around, I’m sure,” Nyssa pulled her bow off her back, and held it to her side, ready to use it.

“I don’t think so,” Sara said. “It’s the one that wears the dress, who gets carried, right? I stick to jeans.”

“Or it’s the one in white,” Nyssa said. “I’ve seen that wig you play around with. Close enough.”

“A wig isn’t a dress,” a smile.

“And a dress isn’t a wedding dress,” Nyssa said. “How about, I’m the stronger one, so I can actually carry you?”

“I’m not that heavy,” a chuckle. “Know you’re not, either.”

“How about this?” Nyssa tilted her head. “Whoever neutralizes the most in there gets to do the carrying.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sara said. She smiled, despite knowing Nyssa was more practised at this.

“Last thing, spotted a wine cellar through a window. If you end up going in there, try not to break any of the good stuff.”

“Got it,” Sara said, and grinned again. “Sure you don’t want me to carry you over the threshold?”

“Fortunately, I think I can manage myself.”

It was Nyssa who kicked the door in, firing arrows to deal with the by-now aware guards at a distance. Sara wielded her staff expertly, taking care of anyone nearby, stragglers, or occasionally jabbing at any who neared Nyssa, from a distance.

There was something exhilarating about this. The teamwork, the exertion (however slight), the sense of actually achieving something.

She knew Nyssa felt the same. She was the one who’d introduced Sara to the feeling. The rush, soon untainted by fear, and the sheer enjoyment.

Of course, it was more fun when the guards could last more than a few seconds. Then they could work together properly, switch targets; put them off guard, and just work together properly. As it was, Sara was beginning to feel she had just to walk down the hall for them to fall, dead of unconscious.

The entry hall was clear, as were corridors, and countless grand rooms. Nyssa had been the one to peer into the wine cellar, only finding one person hiding there, and shooting them through an empty wine rack.

“Found him,” Nyssa called, peering into one of the many bedrooms. A moment later, and Sara was at her side.

The businessman, their target. One of the easier kills too: less practised than Nyssa, Sara still sometime struggled when the target was someone she personally might have liked. This one, however, was positively loathsome.

Even beyond the stories told, she could see him, quaking beneath the bed-sheets. He was obviously going to beg for mercy: a plea somewhat ruined by the visible bulge of a weapon beneath the sheet.

“P-please,” he began. Nyssa rolled her eyes, and fired one arrow at his hand: he cried out, certainly unable to wield the gun now. Eyes wide, he shuffled away, pressed himself against the wall, as if he could fall through it. “Who- who are you?”

Sara regarded him, somewhat dispassionately. Once, she’d been frightened like that. Shaking, barely able to talk. No longer.

“Nyssa,” Nyssa spoke, “Heir to the demon.”

She smiled, and the target’s eyes widened further. Then Nyssa stepped aside, silently allowing Sara the kill. It was a strange kind of gift, but a gift nonetheless. Sara knew she still needed more practise; more than once, she’d hesitated at taking a life. She couldn’t afford that.

“Ta-er al-Asfer,” Sara spoke, using her League name, identifying herself to the target. Then, a sideways smile to Nyssa: “In-law to the demon.”

In one fluid motion, Sara reached sideways, plucked an arrow from Nyssa’s quiver, and threw it hard enough to pierce the target’s throat. One last convulsion, a failed gasp, and it was done.

A moment of silence, of tension.

Sara had to wonder when she’d become so comfortable taking a life. Once, she’d never have considered it. Now it was casual: if not as easy as breathing, then getting close to it.

Then Nyssa exhaled, and lowered the cloth over her mouth. “Nice throw,” she said, remarkably conversationally.

“Thanks,” Sara said, lowering her own veil. Nyssa chuckled.

“In-law to the demon, though?” she said. Sara smiled.

“Technically,” a shrug, “What about ‘heir to the demon’?”

“It’s true.”

“Sure, but you always say that,” Sara sat on a table, not bothered by the corpse. “Every time you meet someone.”

A shrug. “How many did you get?” Nyssa said.

“Fourteen,” Sara said. “Fifteen including him.”

“Fifteen too here,” Nyssa said. “Nicely done. As I gave you the last though, let’s say that only counts as half. I-”

Mid-sentence, Sara reaches across, pulling back Nyssa’s bow and quickly aiming and firing a shot through the open doorway. A cry, as one of the last guards fell back.

“Sixteen,” Sara said, smiling. “Fifteen and a half. Still one better.”

Nyssa shook her head, muttering a playful insult, and laughing. Not many people could claim they’d beaten Ra’s Al Ghul’s daughter, even in such a light-hearted contest.

“You win,” she said, leaning down to kiss Sara, before sitting beside her on the table. “Want a drink? I saw a good vintage.”

Sara nodded; Nyssa briefly left. After a few seconds, Sara left the room, not as used to dead bodies as Nyssa seemed to be.

Just as she was about to move to the next bedroom across, there was a noise from downstairs. Probably a handful more guards. Sara didn’t worry about Nyssa, knowing she could take care of herself, but she didn’t want to fall behind in their mini-contest.

Leaping over the banisters, Sara landed, to see Nyssa holding two wine-glasses by their stems, between her fingers, in one hand. In the other, she held a bottle of what looked like red wine. Holding them aloft, she seemed to have just disarmed two guards with well-placed kicks.

As she kicked one unconscious, Sara swung her staff at the second. A thud, and they crumpled.

“No getting ahead,” Sara said, not quite out of breath.

“No falling behind,” Nyssa said, before throwing the wine bottle to Sara. “Saw a balcony upstairs. Want to watch the sunrise?”

It was almost impressive, Sara reflected as she caught the bottle, how quickly Nyssa could go from cold-blooded killer to girlfriend thinking up dates. Then again, it was almost a necessity: work at the League didn’t exactly give priority to love lives.

Still, they’d found a way, and kept on finding ways. The dead would hardly miss their wine, so neither of them was especially adverse to pouring themselves a drink at the target’s expense.

Nyssa came down hard on grave-robbers, as Sara had learnt long ago. She only took consumables; never trinkets, or memorabilia. Families, friends might want them, even if a lot of the targets weren’t the sort to have such people.

Who’d miss a couple of glasses of red though?

Once on the balcony, Nyssa poured two glasses, and sat on a fold-up chair, beside Sara. It was still night, though neither of them really noticed the cold.

Slowly, the sun began to peek over the horizon. It was an oddly calming sight, after all that had happened.

Slowly, more of the city came into view, the first red rays illuminating it. The two assassins relaxed, and watched. If there were any guards still in the mansion, they were keeping their distance. Unsurprising.

Sara sipped at her mind, feeling the adrenaline rush of the kill dissipate, bit by bit. That was something else she’d yet to get used to; from what she’d gathered form Nyssa, she seemed to get a rush far, far less. She was used to all this.

“Beautiful,” Sara said, softly.

She looked, briefly, sideways. Nyssa had almost finished her glass, as she bathed in the crimson light. Nyssa shifted on her chair, pulling her hood back, and shaking her dark hair free.

Sara echoed the action, pulling her blonde hair around, over her shoulder. Nyssa turned to her, the smile on her face genuine, and fond. Rare, also, from what Sara had gathered. Apparently Nyssa smiled for few people; Sara felt privileged to be one of those few.

“I prefer the sunset,” Nyssa said.

She put her now-empty wineglass on the stone floor of the balcony. Sara finished hers, and paused.

“Refill?” she said, gesturing to the bottle. It was still just over halfway full.

“I’d prefer to keep full command of my senses,” Nyssa said.

“Big bad heir to the demon can’t hold her alcohol?” Sara said, teasing.

“I could,” Nyssa said. “It’s better to be certain.”

“You can look after me, then,” Sara said, pouring herself a second glass. “If I pass out, you get to carry me over the threshold after all.”

Nyssa chuckled; Sara put the bottle down, the idly knocked it onto its side, and let it roll back into the house.

She wouldn’t want more than a second glass, either. After all, she’d had the same training as Nyssa: even with her resistance to drunkenness from years and years back in Starling City, she didn’t want anything to cloud her judgement, however slightly.

Three glasses between them would do nothing notable, however.

“Sho,” Sara slurred her words rather dramatically, “Why’sh yoush prefer the shunshet?”

Nyssa raised her eyebrows, somewhat incredulous. Sara laughed.

“Kidding,” a smile. “Still sober here. Why’d you prefer the sunset, though? Rises are meant to be the more romantic.”

“They end in darkness,” Nyssa said. “A far more comforting finish than the sunrise.”

Quiet, for a moment. Sara’s gaze left Nyssa, returning to the increasing light, the flare of white setting the line of sky above the horizon aflame. It might not be as spectacular as the sunsets Nyssa seemed to prefer, but it certainly was enough to take Sara’s breath away.

“This is good too though, right?” Sara said. She sipped from her glass.

“Unquestionably,” Nyssa said.

An exhalation. Sara shifted in her seat, relaxed. The rush had all but gone completely, now. There was a buzz that might have been its aftereffects, or might have been the alcohol. That was all.

“What time’s the plane back?” Sara said.

“So eager to leave,” Nyssa said. Sara shook her head.

“Just want to know how much time we have here. Away from the League.”

“We’re never away,” Nyssa said: a pause. “The flight leaves at three, in the afternoon. We’ll be alone until then.”

Half a day more together. Then back to Nanda Parbat, and training, and everything else the hidden city that the League called home entailed. Sara sighed; then altered her expression. She wouldn’t let the future ruin the now.

It wasn’t that she disliked the city. She couldn’t: it was the only place she could call home, now. It was just, her time stopped being her own, there.

Not wanting to stare at the sunrise any longer, Sara turn, and found Nyssa’s eyes fixed firmly on her. She smiled; drank half the wine remaining.

“You’re staring,” Sara said.

Her tone was playful; Nyssa noticed. A smirk. She didn’t seem at all distracted by the array of shades as the sun rose in the distance; only in the sights that light illuminated.

“Ta-er a-Asfer,” Nyssa spoke. Whispered.

Canary. As always, when Nyssa said her new name, Sara shivered. A sip of wine, and she put down her empty glass.

“There’s not much point in sitting out for the sunrise if you’re not going to look at it,” Sara said. She couldn’t complain though; she did love it when Nyssa wore that smirk.

“My yellow bird,” Nyssa said. “You are a far more beautiful sight.”


	2. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An assassin's definition of a prank is very different to most peoples'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generally speaking, these aren't huge investments of time, so I'm guessing I'll certainly come back to this story when I have a suitable idea. As it is, I don't have any immediate plans to update, but I'm fairly sure I will at some point.   
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Their flight was leaving in about an hour. Nyssa and Sara wandered through the airport, before heading through security.

Their latest mission had taken them to Shanghai, in China. The kill itself had been effortless, giving them a fair amount of time to simply explore the city. While at the airport however, Sara had vanished for a few seconds, only to return with a small golden cat figurine, with a tiny hand that waved.

It was the kind of thing that existed purely for tourists who didn’t have a clue of the folktale behind the lucky cat, nor that the story and statue was Japanese in origin. In short, someone the polar opposite of a member of the League of Assassins, who had to be taught details of various cultures.

“Want a souvenir?” Sara said. She tilted her head: smiled at Nyssa.

She hadn’t paid for it. Shop security systems were nothing compared to the things she’d had to evade. Sometimes, she just enjoyed exercising her new skill.

Nyssa, however, just chuckled. She took the figurine, tilting her head as the small paw waved at her. An eyeroll later, and she slipped it into the pocket of her suitcase.

Sara had been picking up souvenirs on each mission they’d been on. Most recruits did something similar, in their first few years; plus Sara had apparently always been interested in travel. Now, she was just making the most of the opportunity.

Still, Nyssa couldn’t help but be amused at Sara’s insistence at giving them as gifts. Nyssa had little use for decoration, or indeed much that wasn’t of any practical use. Regardless, she found she valued Sara’s presents.

“I’m glad this journey wasn’t wasted,” Nyssa said, deadpan.

“The League gets paid,” Sara said. She shrugged: “May as well send that money somewhere.”

Maybe they should have been less open in chatting about the League, in a city still reeling from the sudden murder of a major political figure, and in an airport brimming with security. It didn’t seem to bother either of them, though.

“Cute,” Nyssa said. She might have been sarcastic. “I’m glad the benefits of travel aren’t wasted on you.”

“They’re not,” Sara said. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of fun. You didn’t mind playing games back home.”

Strange how easily the word ‘home’ fell from her lips. She scarcely thought of Starling City, nowadays.

“They were part of your training,” Nyssa said. Sara shrugged.

“You still called them games.”

“That was to encourage you,” Nyssa said, and then smirked. “And they were games for me.”

Sara couldn’t say she was surprised. The League was hardly renowned for its gentle methods, and she had to admit to struggling to figure out what was fun in a few of those games, to begin with. She’d grown used to them; even if it was hard to find enjoyment, they were less strenuous.

One of the least unpleasant had involved falling a sizeable distance into icy-cool water. Though the river was deep, it was also thin, making it rather hard to land in; especially when she had her eyes squeezed shut from the air rushing past her as she fell.

She didn’t bear Nyssa any ill will for her training, however. It was a necessity of the League, and she was prepared well for most of them. And, even if Nyssa had been there to chuckle while she sputtered, she was also there to wrap her in a blanket and bring her back to warmth.

A few minutes later, and they were queuing to get through security. It was slow going, though each had learned patience. For Sara’s part, she was holding back laughter.

“I take it we’re not expecting trouble?” Sara said, quietly. Nyssa shook her head.

The League gave out two kinds of ID. The first was a good fake, with unsuspicious details, and a photo digitally altered to be recognizable to human eyes, but that missed out a few details that a computerized scan might search for. Only a handful of systems would identify the user.

The second was used more for training purposes, than anything, and given to new recruits to see what they’d do. To normal eyes, it seemed regular, only to be revealed as fake as soon as the airport examined it.

The challenge was to escape without launching a huge manhunt. Sara could remember having to do that a few times; it had fast become an irritation, more than a challenge.

The only especially tricky part of it was knowing the kind of ID you’d been given. It was meant to make sure assassins were on-guard at all time; even professionals were sometimes slipped lower-quality fakes. Normally they weren’t told, though Nyssa through positional superiority and through blood was more likely to know.

“Nothing,” Nyssa said. “I pulled a few strings. When we’re out together, the only risk is that they have good software.”

Relatively unlikely. Sara had only heard of a few organizations who could see through League fakes, and they weren’t likely to be interfering with every airport. Sara had heard of a few assassins having difficulties near Hong Kong a year back, but that was mostly it.

“That’s good,” Sara said. Much easier to relax when she knew she wasn’t likely to have a gun pointed to her head. Then, adopting a more playful, posh voice: “Enjoy the flight, Ms Raatko.”

Nyssa chuckled at the sound of her typical alias.

“You too, Ms Drake,” Nyssa said, using Sara’s alias similarly.

A chuckle. The queue crawled on, slowly.

“Where were the seats?” Sara said: as the more senior assassin, Nyssa had been in charge of booking them.

“Row 20,” Nyssa said. “On the right edge of the plane.”

“Window seat?” Sara said, tilting her head. “I call it.”

Nyssa chuckled. She didn’t speak: only shook her head, and Sara could guess what that meant. A sigh.

“Life is never that easy,” Nyssa said. Sara shrugged.

“Nice if it was, though,” she said, and paused. A smile: “How about a game?”

“Game?” Nyssa said. She gave a smile both playful and intrigued.

“A race,” Sara said, simply. “First one to the plane gets the window seat. Sound fun?”

Nyssa shrugged, then nodded. Hardly the most thrilling thing, but more entertaining than a normal journey through the airport.

Sara smiled. As they reached the front of the queue, to drop their suitcases off, Sara subtly slipped a blade out of the luggage, and into her jacket pocket.

When they moved on a small distance, now with only their hand luggage, they were in the queue for the metal detectors. Sara leaned across, to kiss Nyssa; using it as a distraction to slip the blade across, to Nyssa’s pocket.

“What was that for?” Nyssa said, as Sara pulled back. Her expression was very far from complaining.

Sara shrugged. She resisted the temptation to smile innocently, knowing that would give everything away.

“Felt like it,” Sara said. “Good luck kiss?”

A chuckle: and Nyssa leant back across, returning the kiss, and giving another. Sara didn’t focus on those sensations, instead keeping her mind on her jacket, and the weight of her jacket, in case Nyssa was returning the knife.

Nothing seemed apparent, however. Presumably Nyssa hadn’t noticed: Sara’s League training had to be good for something, after all.

“You need it more than me,” Nyssa said, playful.

“We’ll see,” Sara said.

She slipped ahead, moving through the metal detector unimpeded, and picked up her hand luggage from the other inside. Then she turned, and waited for Nyssa to follow.

Instantly, the sirens went off. Nyssa frowned, briefly, but expecting it to just be a random alarm, she stood ready to be searched. When the pat-down revealed an intricately patterned dagger, and security moved in to lead her away, she actually smiled.

Sara suppressed the urge to wave. The League had ensured no connection could be drawn between their fake identities: for all the airport knew, they were two strangers who’d struck up a conversation and gotten along. A playful wave goodbye wouldn’t encourage that impression, however.

She did, however, satisfy herself with a wink.

It wouldn’t be anything remotely close to insurmountable for Nyssa. Once security had taken her to a private room, to talk, she’d be free in less than a minute, unhurt. Plus, she wouldn’t have caused a fuss: always preferable when outgoing, rather than arriving.

However, Nyssa would be delayed until she could get passed security again. That gave Sara a fair bit of time.

Idly, she wandered through the airport, keeping an eye out, and heading for the correct gate as soon as she saw a sign. Boarding began just a couple of minutes after she arrived.

Still no sign of Nyssa. Sara frowned, glancing around, again. No, definitely no Nyssa.

Sara didn’t feel worried though. If there was one person who you didn’t need to be scared for, it was the heir to the demon. She could take care of herself. Still, if she didn’t hurry up, she’d need to take the next plane.

When her row was called, Sara showed her pickpocketed ticket, and got on board. She glanced back, then. Still no sign of her lover.

Then, she let herself worry slightly. At worst, Nyssa would only be delayed until the next flight. That was Sara’s hope: but then, the League did (unavoidably) have enemies. If someone had recognized her when security had lead her away…

Walking down the aisle of the plane, Sara exhaled. She needn’t have worried.

Nyssa was sitting in Row 20, idly flicking through the safety booklet. In the window seat, of course. She turned her head; looked up as Sara passed, and smiled.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Sara sighed, and sat beside her. Not at all bitter about having lost the race; if anything, she was rather impressed.

“Don’t suppose you’d be willing to share how you managed that?” Sara said.

Without a word, Nyssa folded up the safety booklet, slipping it into the back of the chair in front of them.

“You tell me,” Nyssa said.

Another challenge. Sara stood again, pulling a couple of books out from their hand luggage, before shutting it back in the above-seat compartment. Just as she was about to sit again, she paused, hand on the cupboard. Curious she tilted her head. Contemplative.

When she sat, she passed Nyssa’s book to her, rested her own on her lap, and nodded thoughtfully.

“The ceiling,” she said, chuckling at the simplicity of it.

“Always be mindful of your surroundings,” Nyssa said. “There are always options.”

How Nyssa had reached the plane was obvious, really. Sara had made the mistake of thinking going through security was the only, or at least the easiest, way to get to the plane. That wasn’t the case: the ceiling at the airport was of a kind Sara had seen a great deal of, and occasionally taken advantage of, as Nyssa had.

There were multiple boards laid out over a metal framework: boards that could easily be moved, for ease of access. Above, was a fairly open space, where pipes transported heat and water all over the airport.

For a League-trained assassin, it was child’s play to quickly sneak up there, unseen, and silently crawl through. Then it was just a matter of getting outside, knowing the gate to go to, and finding the plane.

“I win,” Nyssa said.

“This time,” Sara said, and smiled.

A chuckle. Nyssa reached across; squeezed her hand. There was a moment of silence between them when the pilot’s voice sounded through the speaker. A short time later, the plane began to move, driving to the runway.

“Where was I?” Nyssa said, to herself, as soon as there was a chance to talk again.

Sara hesitated. “Promising not to get revenge for my prank?” she tilted her head, hopefully.

Nyssa chuckled, both of them knowing what a League prank generally entailed. A quick tussle with airport security barely registered.

“I can’t promise that,” Nyssa said, and smirked at Sara’s expression. 


	3. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't added a story here for a while. This one's set earlier on in Sara's time at the League.   
> Enjoy!

“Again.”

Sara ducked under a blow, and lashed out herself. Weave, sidestep, leap, block: the routine was familiar, by now. Still, it never became easy, or predictable: she’d have expected it would, with how often she sparred with Nyssa.

Instead, somehow, Nyssa ensured things stayed fresh. It was a challenge, each time.

Sara hadn’t been at the League too long. She knew Nyssa was probably going easy on her, but she still glimpsed small signs of exertion. It was quite an improvement on when she’d first come here: she could barely name the weapons, much less use them.

She’d found her preferred bo-staff however, and focused on training with that.

A lunge: Nyssa took a step back. She raised her eyebrows in surprise: then smiled.

“Good,” Nyssa said: knocked the staff aside. “More.”

Nyssa was nothing if not thorough. Sara inhaled, focusing through her exhaustion. As much as her skills had to improve, Sara had to admit she didn’t come close to Nyssa’s levels of stamina. Such things took time; her months didn’t compare to Nyssa’s solid years of training.

Another lunge: Nyssa parried it, and Sara stumbled. For a split second, Sara ran through the various recovery methods in her head: and rejected each one, opting to complete the fall, giving a gasp of pain as she hit the ground.

Immediately Nyssa lowered her blade; crouched.

“Sara,” she said. There were only a few people Nyssa let her guard down around; that she showed any tenderness to.

And as Nyssa neared, Sara leapt, pushing her teacher onto her back, and grinning.

“Aren’t you the one always telling me to keep my guard up?” Sara said. She chuckled, enjoying the cheap victory for a few seconds.

Nyssa echoed the smile, and moved her hand half an inch. Her sword-sheath jerked up, Sara lost her balance for a brief instant, and Nyssa pounced. When she had Sara pinned:

“Yes,” Nyssa said, “I am.”

A moment of silence. Then Nyssa straightened: sat up, immediately relaxed. It was a little warily that Sara sat up too; it was always hard to tell just when their training sessions had finished.

Still, it didn’t look like any surprises were due. Sara exhaled, relieved. Sometimes their sparring could go on too long; as much as she enjoyed it, she didn’t have the energy to go on forever.

Today, the practise had taken place outside, a decent walk from Nanda Parbat itself. Nyssa had awoken her in the early morning, to take her out. It afforded them some privacy, as well as opportunity: the League was bound by tradition and so could be old-fashioned, in some respects.

Nyssa wasn’t entirely immune to that, either. As much as she might enjoy a quiet day spent with Sara, she wouldn’t lie, and wouldn’t waste a day. If they came out under the guise of sparring, she’d be sure to get some in.

“Good,” Nyssa said, “But you’re still broadcasting. Anyone could see where and when you’d strike.”

It was never that easy to get a compliment. Sara slumped, briefly resting her weight on her staff, before she stood.

Nyssa was already to the side, sitting atop a crate. The League had a few boxes all over the landscape: supplies, weapons, training. No one would dare steal from them.

It was a fine irony: the organization with some of the best guards had very little to fear from thieves and the like.

Recognizing the respite, Sara wandered over, and sat on the crate beside Nyssa's. Nyssa threw a packet across to her: food, one of many things stored in them.

Outposts like this had many uses. More than anything, Sara liked to use them for an escape. She was content with her life at the League, but it was good to have a break, every now and again: good to have some fresh air.

"For you," Nyssa said, and threw something else across.

Sara blinked: put down her small pack of food, to catch the plastic wrap passed to her. She'd long since grown used to how out of place the plastics and foils looked in the traditional designs of the League.

It was a passport: perhaps made by genuine sources, perhaps just a high quality fake. There wasn't much transparency on such issues. It bore her face, a few travels already stamped in for appearances' sake, but every other detail was different.

Her date of birth was the right year, but the day and month she'd arrived at the League, and the name given to the face was Sarah Sharpe.

"What's this?" Sara said, looking up.

"We really do need to work on your observational skills," Nyssa said. Sara rolled her eyes at Nyssa's typical dryness.

"I know it's a passport," she said. "I was wondering why."

"You're to accompany me," Nyssa said. "Further training. You're to see a typical mission."

Sara wondered whether she should be more excited. She hadn't seen much of the world beyond Nanda Parbat: since Lian Yu she'd traded one prison for another. She hadn't really minded, though.

When she'd first arrived, Sara had considered how to flee. Her focus on training sessions had been born from a desire to learn the skills needed to escape, and to be put on a mission so that she'd be permitted to leave.

She'd never thought of doing so for months. She'd started to enjoy herself, and her companionship with Nyssa: now the option of escape, of freedom, was once again presented to her.

She barely gave it a second thought. She'd stay; and even so, the prospect of leaving Nanda Parbat didn't make her nearly as thrilled as she'd expected.

"Sarah Sharpe?" Sara said.

"Sara Lance is dead," Nyssa said.

"Long live Ta-er Al-Asfer, I know," Sara said. "Guess it would raise a few eyebrows."

Still, she couldn't say much for the League's imagination. Sara to Sarah, Lance to Sharpe. Then again, 'assassin' was in their title, the League wasn't exactly known for its subtlety.

"You can choose what name you want later," Nyssa said. "That one is only temporary."

"Why temporary?" Sara said. "I'd have thought the League didn't want to make a lot of new passports."

"This will be your first observation," Nyssa said. "You may decide League life isn't for you."

"Afraid I'll run?" Sara said. She was almost surprised she could joke about it.

Something in Nyssa's expression faltered, and Sara winced. Of course it wasn't that simple: people didn't leave the League. If she couldn't join it, and she'd be forbidden from leaving it... Limbo was not a desirable state. Especially with such people.

"I hope you do not," Nyssa said, genuinely.

"Careful," Sara said, "Say much more, might have to start doubting your badass act and start thinking you care."

It was a joke; she enjoyed teasing Nyssa. She enjoyed just knowing she could. Still, Nyssa immediately faced her, fully: moved closer and met her eyes.

"You know who I am," Nyssa said. "I may not have cause to say it often, and I may be a harsh teacher, but I hope you never have cause to doubt that I do care."

A moment's hesitation. Seeing Nyssa so open, so raw, it took so getting used to.

"Don't worry," Sara said. She never knew quite how to respond.

Sometimes she wondered if emotion was a finite resource: if people had only so much to give. Nyssa was so cold, so reserved much of the time. If they were in Nanda Parbat, or had an audience with her father, she might go hours without so much as twitching.

As soon as they were alone, however, Nyssa's outpourings were often a surprise, as if she'd been saving up, bottling up, all she felt.

Apparently satisfied, Nyssa returned to where she'd been sitting. Her eyes jerked up when she saw Sara flicking through another passport; Nyssa patted herself down, then sighed.

Nyssa had brought her own ID, or had been given a new one for the journey. During Nyssa's brief proximity, Sara had borrowed it.

"I never should have taught you that," Nyssa said: sighed, but smiled.

"A few of your cooks probably agree," Sara said. "Nyssa Raatko, huh?"

"It is my name," Nyssa said. "Not all of us had lives beyond the League."

A pause. Sometimes she forgot that. Many of Nyssa's stories were of how she'd grown up within those walls: how she'd trained since childhood.

She'd chosen no name, like Sara, Ta-er Al-Asfer, because she had no identity to cast off. She was and had always been Nyssa.

"I thought you were an Al Ghul?" Sara said.

"That is my title," Nyssa said, "Heir to my father, the demon's head. Raatko was my mother's."

A pause. Sara could sense there was some story there: something Nyssa didn't want to share. There were many such stories.

Sara looked down: glanced at Nyssa's photo a last time. She was as stony-faced as ever, though it was odd to see glimpses of normal, casual clothes. Casual wear was a rare sight. within Nanda Parbat.

Then Sara closed the passport, and offered it back. Nyssa took it.

"You never talk about her," Sara said.

"There's little to talk about," Nyssa said. She paused: exhaled. "Some take issue with my using her name. My father is the only part of my parentage I should be concerned with, so they say."

"What names do other... heirs take? I guess Ra's doesn't have one."

"Not any more," Nyssa said: paused. "They may take names from teachers, or apprentices, or lovers: or, rarely, one with no significance at all. I chose her."

Nyssa was staring ahead, focusing on some invisible spot in the air. Tradition was important to the League and, by extension, to Nyssa. It was unusual to see her break with that, however mildly.

"Nyssa Lance?" Sara suggested, trying to distract Nyssa. "Or Sharpe," she idly gestured with her new passport. "If you ever fancy a change."

"Perhaps," Nyssa said.

She gave a smile, at that, but it wasn't entirely a joyful one. It was distracted, hollow: happy with Sara, but less so with what might come about if she did choose that name.

"Thank you," Sara said.

She suddenly felt grateful: it was hard to say why. It suddenly hit her just how much Nyssa had been part of, and how much Nyssa had done.

It was so easy to see Nyssa as no more than the heir to the demon. Sara knew many who did just that: still, spending time with and conversing with Nyssa, and she could see the person beyond all the shackles of tradition and ritual.

"There is nothing to be grateful for," Nyssa said.

"There is," Sara said: paused. "I've seen other League recruits, who gave up who they were before. Some seem to have forgotten. I haven't- You kept me from that."

"I kept Sara Lance," Nyssa said. "And I aided Ta-er Al Asfer hatch from a different egg. I would not shatter who you were."

Another outpouring. With how reserved, how closed-off Nyssa so often was, it meant a lot to hear how fervently she could speak.

“As I said,” Sara said, “Thank you.”

Nyssa paused, then: glanced sideways, perhaps about to speak. Instead, when her eyes found Sara’s, she instead nodded, and simply smiled.


End file.
